


Respite

by mrkinch



Series: Love in Wartime [5]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Battle fatigue, M/M, Reunion, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkinch/pseuds/mrkinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rest and recuperation do not come easily to Charles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this photomanip](http://mrkinch.tumblr.com/post/39257491018/lostwiginity-after-the-war-cries-in) by [lostwiginity](http://lostwiginity.tumblr.com), this is (I think) the last bit of [Love in Wartime](http://archiveofourown.org/series/22000). 
> 
> Much needed encouragement by [therev](http://archiveofourown.org/users/therev/pseuds/therev). Indispensable beta by [stewardess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/therev/pseuds/stewardess).

Charles leans back in the iron seat, the slight warmth of the Autumn sun on his face insufficient distraction from all the places the rails catch his bones, the too-sharp angles of his body. Two days he’s been here, with baths and clean clothing, hot food, a safe place to sleep. And rumors, of course, never believed if one asks, but what if? Could the war truly be winding down? After all, here he is in Paris, so recently an occupied city. He shivers, eyes still closed against the weak sun. He has no strength for hope. In the field he put one foot in front of the other through endless weeks of ditches and hedgerows and the firefights between. His body may be stretched out, almost relaxed, but his thoughts curl inward, his mind clenched against the inevitability of a next blow.

Distant footsteps interrupt his thoughts, leather soles ringing unevenly against the paving stones of the deserted terrace. He tenses but does not look or even turn. His orders give him three more days’ respite and his very soul begs for those days in a desperate plea to fortune that he knows is foolish even as the wrenching need for it hollows out his chest and stops his breath. A change in orders takes only the stroke of a pen and a messenger. 

Charles forces himself to breathe. It is an absurd defense, not to look, as though ignoring the man, clearly a man and tall by the weight and rhythm of the footfalls, will ward off the intrusion. If he were in the field he would have sprung up at the first sound, the knife in his boot coming to hand without a thought. He would have seen at once who was approaching and known what they wanted. Even now he could act on his instincts simply by leaning back, opening his eyes. He should move, but even turning his head will dispel this ephemeral sanctuary.

Eyes resolutely shut, Charles wills the intruder to pass on, wills himself into an appearance of tranquility. He is safe here, he reminds himself, as much as one is anywhere. That is the purpose of this place, the blessing of his days here. He will hold this moment close about him as long as he can.

So Charles waits, utterly still, yet straining for each small sound and movement. Stiff cloth rasps with each step as the man approaches and stops. Charles’s skin prickles as shadow falls across his face. There is a sharp intake of breath not his own. 

“Charles?” The voice is husky, shaky but unbearably familiar. “They said I might find you here.”

Charles’s eyes fly open, heart pounding, all semblance of calm vanished. Erik is there, right there, a narrow silhouette against the pale sky. Too far away, a proper distance but too far for what they are to each other, and right there. There is such tension in Erik’s stance, resonating with Charles’s own until he imagines their nerves vibrating in wild sympathy.

Erik steps a little nearer, and not near enough. Charles can see Erik’s face more clearly now but the blood pounding in his ears overwhelms sight as well as sound. He almost misses Erik putting out a hand as though to support himself against the pillar, notices dimly that he lets his arm fall back instead and makes an effort to stand straight. Erik’s face is strained, exhaustion clear in the deeper lines and sunken eyes. The changes in Erik’s face shock Charles back to himself and he looks more closely, taking in the loose fit of the uniform and Erik’s unsteadiness. Tears start in Charles’s eyes but he dares not dash them away lest he lose even an instant’s sight of Erik, miraculously standing right there. Body and mind, Charles feels himself unclench, the moment by moment preoccupation with survival, with rations and bivouacs, that has been his entire world for so long that he cannot recall otherwise, expanding joyously to encompass this Parisian terrace, the distant trees and pale sky, enfolding himself and Erik both. 

Charles puts out a hand, so very far from touching but it is the most important thing in the world that his intent be plain. “Come and sit, my dear.” 

Their eyes meet and Erik’s face softens, the furrow between his brows smoothing into a faint smile. Charles again feels hollowed out but this time he’s filled up, too, with delight and wonder and love. 

Erik turns to lean on the pillar indeed as he levers himself down to the marble plinth. He is so close now, close enough that his hand falls easily on Charles’s knee. It rests there, its heat singing to Charles of Erik’s presence, real and solid. 

Charles leans back again and closes his eyes. The sunlight warming his face feels like a promise now, an extension of the warmth on his knee. Erik is here. For a while they both can rest.


End file.
